Chapter4
1281 Words
DANTE
The smell of cigar smoke and whiskey clung to the walls of Giovanni’s private lounge. The low hum of jazz spilled from hidden speakers, trying to soften the tension in the air, but nothing could drown out the weight of my thoughts.
Cards were shuffled, chips clinked, and the others talked business and I barely heard jack s**t of what they were talking about.
I should be focused. This was a rare night. All five heads of the Cosa Nostra were gathered in one room. Masimo, Giovanni, Dario, Cassio, and I were meeting to discuss business and the recent threats from the Russians since we killed their rat, Antonio Sarto. But my mind was nowhere near this table.
It was still with her.
Rosa.
I haven't been able to get her out of my f*****g mind since this morning. Her face was the spitting image of Elena. But it wasn't just the resemblance. It was the fear, the innocence, the way she looked at me, like she saw the devil and wasn't sure whether to run or fall on her knees and beg.
Kolya handed me her background file this afternoon. I didn’t even make it halfway through before rage burned through my chest.
A sick bastard who treated her like furniture. A dying mother. Living paycheck to paycheck, slaving in kitchens just to survive. No protection.
Not anymore.
“I’m making her my wife,” I’d told Kolya the moment I finished reading.
And I meant it.
I’d already assigned Yan to follow her. Watch her. Protect her. Until I figured out the cleanest way to pull her from that trash heap she called a life—and make her mine.
‘It’s all about the poker face, brother.’” Dario shrugs as he wins the game.
Masimo laughs and grabs a handful of pretzels. “How’s business for everyone?”
Cassio downs a sip of wine. “Got new printers last week. Cash is flowing again.”
Cassio’s counterfeiting game was the best in the city. Always has been.
Masimo leans back. “Shipment of arms comes next week. Then I’ll finally have something to do again.”
“Till then, enjoy the quiet,” Giovanni quips, sliding a tumbler of bourbon toward me.
I take it, barely tasting the burn as I swallow.
“Dante.” Dario’s voice cuts through the haze.
I glanced at him.
“You’ve barely said a word. What’s on your mind?”
I set the tumbler down. Screw it.
“I saw her again.”
Masimo arches a brow. “Her who?”
“Elena.”
Silence.
Dead silence.
Cassio set down his wine glass, eyes narrowing. “That's impossible. We all saw her die”
“The woman looks exactly like her. She works at one of my restaurants. Goes by Rosa.”
Dario whistles low. “Christ.”
I leaned forward. “She has her f*****g face and I can't seem to get her out of my damn mind,” I said. “I’m making her my wife.”
That shuts them all up.
Masimo is the first to speak. “You’re marrying her?”
“Yes. She doesn’t know it yet. But she will.”
Giovanni chuckles darkly. “Of course, she doesn’t.”
Kolya steps into the lounge, phone in hand. He leans down and murmurs something in my ear.
I shoot to my feet so fast that the chair nearly topples behind me.
“What’s wrong?” Dario asks.
“She’s been attacked.”
My voice is low. Controlled. But my fists are already clenched.
“Where are you going?” Cassio says, even though he already knows.
“To make sure my woman’s okay.”
Dario stands with me. “Then I’m coming too.”
“No way I’m missing this,” Masimo says, already tossing his chips in the middle of the table.
Giovanni downs his drink and nods. “Let’s go.”
Cassio grabs his coat and follows. “You’re sure about this woman?”
“I don’t give a f**k about who she is,” I growl. “She’s mine now.”
I turned toward Kolya. “Stay back, figure out who did this, and have them brought here before I return.” he nods and gets to it right away.
When we got to her house, I swung the door open without knocking, impatience taking over.’
My eyes landed on her instantly.
She was on the floor—curled up beside the tattered couch like a broken thing someone had tossed aside. Her hair was a mess, her breathing shallow, her hands trembling.
I crossed the room in seconds.
She didn’t scream when I dropped to my knees in front of her but just stared up at me in fear and confusion.
Without a word, I lifted her gently from the floor. She tensed in my arms, but I didn’t stop. I carried her bridal style to the kitchen and set her on the counter, her legs dangling as she clutched the edge for balance.
I lowered my gaze and inspected her carefully, then my eyes fell to her stomach where her tank top had ridden up slightly. A pale scar ran across her skin, faded but still visible.
Rage sparked deep in my chest.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, my voice low, but the rage in it was barely caged.
Behind me, Cassio also notices the bruises and says, “Dante… those are old scars.”
That was all I needed to know.
I knew exactly who had caused them.
That f*****g bastard.
She sat stiffly beneath my touch like she was trying not to breathe. Her confusion and fear radiated off her in waves. I could feel it.
The others—Cassio, Masimo, Dario, and Giovanni glanced between us, reading the room, and without a word, they quietly stepped out, giving us space.
Silence stretched between us before she finally spoke.
“H-how did you find me, Sir? And why are you here?” she asked, her voice soft and shaky.
I met her eyes. “I own half the city, Bambolina. Finding where you live wasn’t exactly difficult.”
Her gaze dropped to her lap. “Has this happened before?” I asked.
She gave a small nod. Barely there.
The fury inside me twisted darker.
“Can you please leave?” she whispered, almost too quietly to hear. “You’re making me feel… uncomfortable. In my own house.”
Her words hit me like a slap. But I didn’t show it.
I held her gaze a moment longer, then stepped back.
I’ll forgive this behavior… for now.
Outside, the others were waiting. I didn’t need to explain anything. They could see it on my face.
We returned to Gio’s estate—the poker game long forgotten. Kolya and Yan met me at the door.
“Where are they?” I asked, my voice calm and controlled.
“The back room.”
I didn’t waste a second.
The moment I stepped inside, I saw three of them. Scarred, sweating, and trembling.
“You boys touched my woman…” I said quietly, stepping toward them, “and I’d like to imbue in you—and everyone else—that touching what belongs to me only ends one way.”
They started pleading.
Too late.
I’d snapped the moment I saw those scars.
I reached for the pistol tucked in the back of my waistband, lifted it without hesitation, and aimed.
Three shots.
I turned to Kolya. “Burn what’s left.”
Then I walked out.
Because no one touches my wife and lives to talk about it.
- Writer
